copo! I cannot distrust a tale thus
told! Thou hast, indeed, been a victim of their hellish duplicity, and
well mayest thou say, the load was past bearing. What is thy intention?"

"I serve them no longer, Don Camillo--I wait only for the last solemn
scene, which is now certain, and then I quit this city of deceit, to
seek my fortune in another region. They have blasted my youth, and
loaded my name with infamy--God may yet lighten the load!"

"Reproach not thyself beyond reason, Jacopo, for the happiest and most
fortunate of us all are not above the power of temptation. Thou knowest
that even my name and rank have not, altogether, protected me from their
arts."

"I know them capable, Signore, of deluding angels! Their arts are only
surpassed by their means, and their pretence of virtue by their
indifference to its practice."

"Thou sayest true, Jacopo: the truth is never in greater danger, than
when whole communities lend themselves to the vicious deception of
seemliness, and without truth there is no virtue. This it is to
substitute profession for practice--to use the altar for a worldly
purpose--and to bestow power without any other responsibility than that
which is exacted by the selfishness of caste! Jacopo--poor Jacopo! thou
shalt be my servitor--I am lord of my own seignories, and once rid of
this specious Republic, I charge myself with the care of thy safety and
fortunes. Be at peace as respects thy conscience: I have interest near
the Holy See, and thou shalt not want absolution!"

The gratitude of the Bravo was more vivid in feeling than in expression.
He kissed the hand of Don Camillo, but it was with a reservation of
self-respect that belonged to the character of the man.

"A system like this of Venice," continued the musing noble, "leaves none
of us masters of our own acts. The wiles of such a combination are
stronger than the will. It cloaks its offences against right in a
thousand specious forms, and it enlists the support of every man under
the pretence of a sacrifice for the common good. We often fancy
ourselves simple dealers in some justifiable state intrigue, when in
truth we are deep in sin. Falsehood is the parent of all crimes, and in
no case has it a progeny so numerous as that in which its own birth is
derived from the state. I fear I may have made sacrifices to this
treacherous influence, I could wish forgotten."

Though Don Camillo soliloquized, rather than addressed his companion, it
w